


You Jump, I Jump, Jack

by Alisonrutherford



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 25 things before you turn 25, based off a line in Gilmore Girls, bungee jumping, couldn't help myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 15:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alisonrutherford/pseuds/Alisonrutherford
Summary: The idea was all his, and she acquiesced with a smile too big for her face and a squeal entirely too high-pitched for the situation to call for, because the concept sounded promising, exhilarating even.“Let’s do it!” Her arms were securely around his neck, his lips kissing soft patterns along the curve of her jaw, before the preliminary plans were even made.25 things you’ve never done before you turn 25.





	You Jump, I Jump, Jack

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Sorry I haven't updated my other story in a while. It's coming, I promise. This one got me a little sidetracked this week. The title, and about 10 words of dialogue in this fic were taken from my favorite episode of Gilmore Girls. Other than that inspiration, there is no correlation between this and that show. I hope you guys like it! I'm still learning the ropes to this whole writing thing, so please, please like, comment, and follow me on Tumblr @ alisoncollis. Also, this is Alpha'd, Beta'd, all the way to Zeta'd by yours truly, so you just KNOW it has errors.

364 feet.

From this height, the world looks different - somehow smaller and larger all at the same time. Earth’s colors and elements swirl together to form a scene of beautiful serenity. The roots of the trees skirting the water’s edge kiss the crystalline blue/green surface, and the branches stretch longingly toward the heavens.  It’s quiet, but loud simultaneously, with calming fresh air and the rush of water gushing underneath them. However, all she can hear, or more all she can _focus_ on, is the thrumming heartbeat in her ears, pounding.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

 

Betty has never attempted anything this crazy in her life. She keeps reminding herself of that inconvenient fact as the dude-bro in front of her, Trent she thinks is his name, pulls at the straps of the harness wrapped snugly around her waist to insure that it’s secure.

 _Dear God it better be_ , she thinks.

“Feel good? Not too tight, not too loose?” He questions with a lilt that suggests he may or may not be the slightest bit stoned, bending down to wrap more straps around her ankles. She nods, vaguely registering his words, resisting the urge to regurgitate the chicken salad sandwich she had for lunch, as well as her thundering pulse, all over his bright red t-shirt. The instructor off to her right, a much more respectable looking and coherent individual, is mumbling something to Jughead. And Archie is _somewhere_ leaning over the edge of the bridge yelling, “This is so sick!”

 _No Archie, this is how we are all going to die_ , she mentally rebounds.   

 

Spontaneity and danger were not words firmly rooted in her vocabulary, not by a long shot. She played things safe, lived in a world of soft colors and guarded conversations, or used to. _Before he came in with a metaphorical wrecking ball and restructured everything._  

 

_“Come on Betts, it’ll be fun, different.” He’d implored, enthusiastically, from a criss-crossed position in the middle of their king-size mattress._

_Yes to the later, no to the former, she thought. She knew he was speaking, his mouth was moving after all, but as he pointed animatedly to the Youtube video glowing from his laptop, all she heard was the inane rambling of a lunatic._

_“Do you even know who you’re speaking to right now?”_

 

She didn’t _take_ risks, no matter how calculated; even now, long removed from the tiny house under her mother’s thumb whence she once lived. And diving off a bridge, strapped in our not, is a _huge_ risk. Gargantuan. Epic. Life altering.

_Ok, life altering may be a touch dramatic. It’s definitely week altering, though._

 

But that was the intention. To take life by the proverbial horns, do something a smidge crazy and logically out of character, to expand her/their horizons and mentally check off boxes under the heading ‘ _some things I may do and some things I normally would never do. Ever. Under any circumstance, unless I was coerced or threatened, possibly under extreme duress.’_

It was a working title.

 

 

So, begrudgingly, she agreed. But as she overhears Jughead asking Travis ( _Trent and Travis, God was this even a legitimate operation?)_ what the best burger places in the area are, she’s regretting ever agreeing to all of this in the first place.  Well, _this one,_ at least _._  

 

The idea was all his, and she acquiesced with a smile too big for her face and a squeal entirely too high-pitched for the situation to call for, because the concept sounded promising, exhilarating even.  

“Let’s do it!” Her arms were securely around his neck, his lips kissing soft patterns along the curve of her jaw, before the preliminary plans were even made.

 

 

_25 things you’ve never done before you turn 25._

 

It sounded like a book title, a bound copy with a shiny, slick cover embellished with metallic writing on the front - one whose location would have to be searched for in the library database because Jughead could never, _would never_ , willingly venture into the section entitled ‘Lifestyle’ without the cold barrel of a gun pressed firmly to his temple.

Perhaps, one day it _will_ be a book - Her book - when she memoirs their adventures (nervous jitters and nauseous stomach included) in the journal he gifted her the day of their college graduation. She’ll even write a dedication, in neatly swooped handwriting, next to the inscription he scribbled on the first page, bold against the ivory backdrop.

_This chapter will be entitled, ‘What the Hell Was I Thinking?’_

 

Maybe that will come to fruition and Jughead will not only willingly traipse into the belly of the beast better known as _Lifestyle_ , but will swipe every copy from the perfectly manicured shelves and spread them between the front window display and the ‘ _employee recommendations’_ sections.

He might even buy a copy just so he proudly gush to the cashier with a goofy grin plastered on his face, “My _wife_ wrote this.”

Because he will always champion for her.

Who knows, maybe it will rest next to his own published novel on the deep mahogany of their coffee table.  And maybe, _just maybe,_ it will be dog-eared to this very day. She can relive the adventure all over again - from the tingling sensation in her fingers to the fogginess of her brain - when it’s long since unfurled from her mind, smoothed out of wrinkles, and cataloged in a folder labeled, _‘hazy memories- nerve-wracking but ultimately loved, but at the time scary as shit - still a little fuzzy because it was a long time ago._ ’

Again, working title.

 

 

_“Ok, I’m hitting buy now.  Last chance to back out.” His hand hovered over the keyboard mouse pad, swaying back and forth, playing emotional Frogger with her.  The flesh of her bottom lip drained of all its color under the weight of her front teeth, but she still managed to eek out, “Ugh, I can’t look. Just do it.”_

 

 

 

Which were the exact words that hammered the nail in the coffin to number 22 on the list. Lucky number 22.  The _coup de grâce_ of their adventures thus far. The most dangerous anyway, two away from the penultimate. As she looks out over the cracking cement of the faded grey bridge, _allll the way down_ , she wonders if they will make it to 23. Every one up until now hadn’t been so bad.

 

 

They’ve forayed into ballroom dancing (much to Jughead’s chagrin).

“Look, Elizabeth, my hips do not _move_ that way,” he’d huffed, after the instructor returned him to her following an emotionally scarring (his words) solo display at the front of the class.

His complaints lasted the entire 90 minutes, all spurted quietly under his breath, “ _I can’t believe I’m willingly doing this,”_ as he held her hand out tightly, elbows locked, forming a perfect right angle to their bodies. By the end (while he’d never admit it), she saw a glint in his eye and a fractional uptick to his full lips when Madame Josephina complimented his “fancy footwork.”

 

 

She’s dyed her hair.  Well, to be perfectly honest, a _strand_ of her hair, a vivid blue to match the color of his eyes.

“How does it look?” She asked, twirling the strand delicately around her finger as she batted full lashes at him.

“It looks…blue.”

It did look blue, in fact. It looked bright blue then light blue, then barely blue for exactly 7 days before washing out. But the image of his face- scrunched and contorted in sheer embarrassment - as he sat, sandwiched between two housewives of the _Real_ variety (hair already perfectly coiffed despite the fact that they were _at a salon_ for that very reason), on a leather settee, pretending to read a magazine as they blatantly checked him out, would last much, _much_ longer.

“I hate you.” He muttered pushing the glass doors open on their way out.

“You looooovve me.” Notching herself into his side, arms wrapped around his waist, he agreed with gentle kiss to the crown of her freshly colored hair.

 

 

Exactly 3 weeks later, he’d gotten her back. As they stood at the counter of a tattoo parlor, flipping through leather bound books of skulls, snakes wrapped around swords, flowers of every size and description, and Chinese symbols aplenty, she looked about as uncomfortable as a lady of the night during an invitation only extravaganza with our lady, The Queen.

“We don’t have to do this, Betts.” He whispered in her ear, challengingly.

“No, shut up. We’re doing this. Number 10 right?” She playfully huffed in response, turning the pages with enough anxious gumption that the lady behind the counter winched in conjunction with each flip.

“So what are we thinking?” The tattoo artist emerged from a room off to the side, wiping his hands with a white rag, _no frayed edges, good._ And as the smell of disinfectant wafted in one nostril and out the other, her reigning thought was, _thank god this place is clean._          

“I think I have an idea, it’s not in the book though.” Jughead’s spoke clearly to the man, but his eyes never wavered from her face.

They emerged and hour and half later, hand in hand, mouths stretched as wide as possible, with their matching tattoos on display for the world’s piercing gaze.

 

They’ve adopted a pet, well a pet other than their best friend Archie; but this one eats a hell of a lot less of their food.

“Look how adorable she is Juggie!” The little black ball of fluff stood out in stark contrast against the warm brown of the cardboard box placed precariously in front of Pet’s Mart.

He knew, and she knew, as she nuzzled her face in the dark soft fur of the tiny kitten, that it was all over.

That was, until they took her home.

Although she fancied herself a veritable animal whisperer of sorts before, a medium to all of God’s creatures if you will, the pet thing...may not have fallen into the category of ‘best ideas on the list’ - according to her anyway.  

It was supposed to be _their_ cat (note their, not his. She reminds him often), but Betty is still fully under the impression that this particular cat is broken. Other than the occasional vibration, this cat’s inner sound machine does not work for her.  With Jughead, Dr. Tiny Boots, Esq. (because why _wouldn’t_ a cat have multiple degrees while they’re still both firmly in possession of one each), is like an industrial heater used to warm 5000 sq. feet of space. In other words, she’s _loud_ , _too_ loud, _mockingly_ loud.

“Don’t worry, baby, she loves you just as much as she loves me.” The placation would have sounded moderately convincing had Boots not been curled into a ball, burrowed deep in the crook of his knee, emulating a departing jet plane.

 

Most of their list had been small things;

 

A cooking class, or an ‘ _eat all of the raw ingredients leaving Betty with just enough to create a patchwork dish’_ class, more like.

“It all just tastes so _delicious_ , Betts.”

 

Bought new pieces for their wardrobe- a stark leather jacket for him, cool and smooth to the touch, and 3 new sets of lingerie lined with silk and lace, also for him but under the guise of being for her.

“You look…” She stated, bottom lip trapped firmly under her teeth in the sparsely populated store.

“Yeah?” He responded with wiggling eyebrows.

“ _Oh Yeah.”_

That one was short lived, as every time the jacket went on, her clothes came off.  And the second she paraded out of the bathroom with milky skin peeking out behind translucent black thigh highs, breasts straining against her lace push-up, the jacket laid discarded on the floor as his name dripped in ecstasy from her lips.

“I think this is the best idea we’ve ever had.” He exhaled, barely any breath left as they laid, sweaty and sated, on top of the cool, black leather.

 

They’ve taken photography lessons, ridden in a hot air balloon, volunteered at a shelter, learned an instrument ( _ok, ok - a few chords of the guitar from Archie_ ), wrote letters to their family (never sent), among other things to create a list, all encompassing.  

 

 

The last year, the previous eight years really, had broken her out of her shell.  He chiseled his way through her exterior, bit by bit, creating cracks in her walls before watching the thin lines spider web from the inside, eventually crumbling completely in a neat pile at his feet.

For that, and so much more, she was grateful.

 

     

 

 

Before meeting Jughead, she was content with the status quo, perfectly accepting of a life illustrated in clean lines, filled in with soft-hued pastels. She wore crisp collars and snow white Keds - never speckled with dirt, never a tarnish on their soles.

She looked at the card tucked into her vanity mirror with the motivational words, “If it doesn’t challenge you, it won’t change you” every day the summer she moved to the new town of Riverdale.  Hoping one day they’d leap from the card stock and into her body, propelling her into action. They hadn’t.

That was until the world flipped on its axis the first day of her sophomore year in High School.

A day that she can look back on, point to a calendar, and without reservation declare, “That’s the day it all changed.  The day I felt a shift, however minute, and knew my life would be forever altered.”

After that, her muted tones started to steadily transition into a vibrant saturation of vitality.  

It happened like most things do, slowly at first, then all at once.

 

 

Not knowing a single soul in a new town, she waltzed into the school’s newspaper room after a long day of trying to blend in, hoping to camouflage with the pale pink wallflowers as opposed to stand out amongst the crowd as the overly perky new girl- a Scarlet NG that no one willingly wanted to don.

The room looked simple, a little disheveled, not entirely put together (certainly not organized to her standings), but overall, dare she say the word, _perfect._

Later, she realized, the room personified _him_ , and that’s what made it feel so all-consuming.

Running a single finger across the smooth surface of a wooden desk positioned in the middle of the room (checking for dust, as was the Cooper way), she looked around at the eclectic ambiance of outdated PCs, loose articles, and a board pinned with questioning leads.

This was her space to blend in – to get lost.

“Are you lost?” His words echoed her inner thoughts, as he moved through the doorway to stand directly across from her.

 _Yes_ , she thought, unencumbered, without turning around. _In the exact place I want to be._

“uh…can I help you with something?”

His voice, a little nasally, a little like he’d just finished chewing on gravel, sent a shiver up her spine as she turned to match the face with the voice.

And my, my, what a face it was.

 _It still steals her breath the same way it did that very first day_.

Scanning from the bottom up, they inhaled the sight of one another. Darkness and light, the moon and the sun, standing five feet apart, unmoving but with a strong gravitational pull toward each other. His inky black waves rivaled her flaxen hair, but both were adorned – his with a grey beanie, hers with a jaunty elastic band – entirely opposite, but balancing each other, complimentary.

Three things stood out to her in that moment. One was that he looked perfectly at home in the surroundings of the Blue and Gold, a name she’d seen on the crooked plaque walking in.

Two was that she _FELT_ perfectly at home with him in the small space, like the universe conjured that serendipitous meeting just to lay out a welcome mat for their future, beckoning her in.

Three…well three was that he was the most beautiful creature she’d ever laid eyes on. Shoulders broad and relaxed, legs – long and lean, moles scattered along a jawline that could cut glass, he was…a fantasy.    Even with a plain charcoal t-shirt save for the faded red S in the middle, dark jeans, and flannel tied at the waist, his siren call was deafening.

They each took a step closer, one at a time, his step answering hers, hers answering his, until they stood a foot apart.

“Hi, I’m Betty Cooper.”

“Jughead Jones.”

Their hands met halfway, soft and with a slight crackle of electricity, as they intertwined palms and fingers.

“I, um, was hoping to join the school newspaper - figured the room with all the journalistic paraphernalia would be the best place to start.” She gestured openly to the room as a shit eating grin crept slowly up his face.

A beat of silence passed before her eyes locked with his beneath sooted lashes and he spoke.

“Well, you’re in luck…I’ve been looking for someone.”

Her answering smile, every tooth exposed, mirrored his.

 

 

Despite their constant magnetic pull, always finding excuses to be near one another- brushing fingertips here, nudging shoulders there - their relationship started slowly, platonically, at first. They hunched over articles and computer screens, long after classes let out, batting theories and ideas back and forth across what was jointly known as _their_ desk in the Blue and Gold.

_“So this teacher in Greendale might be sleeping with her students.” He’d breathed in a hushed tone across the desk._

_“Well what are we waiting for, Poirot? Grab your coat and let’s go!”_

 

He walked her to school every day, only missing one, three day segment of time when his immune system had fallen victim to a dastardly flu.

She brought him homemade chicken soup all three days.      

 _“Trust me, Juggie, the carrots are good. And good for you – dammit just eat them!”_ She whisper-yelled to avoid waking his dad in the small bedroom of his trailer.  His lips remained firmly clasped, swearing avidly to the vegetable community, “ _You shall not pass!”_   

 

 

From day one, they fell into a comfortable rhythm, learning the beat of each other’s lives and mixing it to their own to form a perfect harmony.  His interests matched hers – books, music, films, you name it; with the exception of his avid _need_ to play Tarantino during their movie nights, they were in sync.

“ _He’s a cinematic genius, Betts!”_ He would croon, almost as if he were being paid to. She’d roll her eyes but allow the crescendo of over the top violence and epic character development to unfold on the tiny tv screen in his trailer.

She’d especially allow his knees to brush up against hers on his dad’s old polyester couch, or his fingertips to dust butterfly kisses along the skin of her knuckles, barely touching, never quite enough.

 _“I don’t bite, you know.”_ She’d stated one night in an uncharacteristic act of bravery.

Eyes widened in sheer terror at first then shrinking back down to normal size, his response was non-verbal – slow and careful - simply raising a single arm. The nook in his side, warm and familiar with the scent of pine and spice and _boy_ , became her favorite spot.

Wiggling into him, she whispered, _“I like it here.”_

 

 

His crazy matched her crazy. Her parents were unyieldingly strict (more specially her mother) – controlling everything from her caloric intake – “ _A moment on the lips, forever on the hips, Elizabeth,”_ all the way to her choice of friends (he wasn’t the first, second, or _third_ choice to hang out with their daughter) – and his parents, well the one half of his parental unit that was still around anyway, didn’t give a shit.

Their dysfunction just fit, like conjoining puzzle pieces to a fucked up version of ‘ _Awkward Family Photos.’_     

It was simple really, they completed each other (if a cliché was to be applied).

 

And nine months into their friendship, on a day where the clouds surrounding her white colonial resembled white raspberry cotton candy, he finally mustered the courage to climb rung after tattered rung of the abandoned ladder leading up to her bedroom window.

In hindsight, she should have seen it coming.  The anticipation had steadily bubbled below the surface like a rolling boil just _waiting_ to break for months. Regardless, he relished in the surprised excitement that spread across her cheeks, a speckled stain of pink, and waited exactly 15 seconds before cupping her face in his calloused hands and pulling her lips in to meet his.

 

From that day forward, after a split second of breathing her in following their kiss, they couldn’t stay away.  Sometimes it was frenzied, ripping off shirts and belt buckles as soon as they were alone in a maddening rush, “ _Why won’t this thing just unhook damnit!”_

Sometimes it was slow -like a trickle of maple syrup dripping from the tap of a sapling - languidly kissing for hours on the (dare she say) decorative couch in the corner of Blue and Gold.  

“ _My lips are numb, and they taste like Dr. Pepper lip balm now, but I think it’s worth it.”_

_“Sooo worth it.”_

 

Their relationship evolved over the course of their remaining high school years, a journey through hills and valleys. It wasn’t always smooth, they fought.  Some might say they fought a lot. For as durable as they were as a couple, they were just as strong-willed as individuals.

She would yell - hands firmly cemented on her hips, ponytail violently swishing back and forth - a tantrum completely justifiable at the time.  

“ _Why won’t you just let me help - I can talk to him with you. I can look up meetings and-”_

_“He’s MY dad, Betty.  Just drop it!”_

He would rip his beanie off in frustration and run exasperated fingers through his hair before storming out.

 

Never more than a half day later, one or the other would magically appear as if by summoning at the other’s door or window with a gentle rapping. Leaned against a frame, the only apology necessary was a jutted lip, and a slightly widened set of puppy dog eyes.

“ _Can I come in?”_

_“You never have to ask that, Juggie.”_

 

They put out articles bi-monthly for the Blue and Gold, always hard hitting, always with a new angle that both of them dusted each other’s shoulders off for. They threw their Royal Blue caps in the air at graduation amongst a sea of faces, some familiar, some less so, after she gave her Valedictorian speech. He’d wolf-whistled with two pinkies shoved haphazardly into his mouth as soon as she spoke her last words and folded the notebook paper into a perfect square behind the podium. They took obligatory pictures in their oversized gowns just beyond the neat white rows of chairs lining the stage, between blooming cherry blossom trees. She’d whispered that the blue in his gown brought out his eyes. He’d told her the blue of her gown and subsequent clothing underneath would bring out the color of his bedroom floor.

 _It did, in fact._ It brought it out twice.

 

 

The fall after graduation, with a welcoming chill and sidewalks dusted in leaves of varying hues of orange and red, they moved into a one bedroom apartment on the east side of Brooklyn near Crown Heights. Despite the sterile walls and creaking hardwoods - as he slid his arms around her waist from behind, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck and whispering, “ _Welcome home, baby,” -_ all 800 square feet felt like their own little slice of rent controlled paradise.      

 

Gradually, with the addition of dainty second-hand side tables white washed in pale grey, picture frames that never hung _quite_ as straight as she would prefer (even though a level was used, once, twice, three times for good measure - no pun intended), and a mountain of decorative throw pillows (that Jughead would never fully understand, seeing as how it took him exactly 10 hours to rearrange them every morning into the neat triangular pile) - “ _What the hell does one person need 24 pillows for?!”_ \- it became home.

And it remained home through four years of college, one year of their journalistic internships, 7.5 jobs, and countless containers of Chinese take-out and 2 am Insomnia Cookies.

 

 

 

Now, 364 feet in the air - looking out over God’s great creation, while Archie yammers on in the background about ‘how he can’t wait for his turn’ (like it’s a carnival ride and _not_ a plummeting descent to earth) – she _yearns_ for that safe, fluffy pyramid of throw pillows.       

 

     

 

 

 

          

 

“Are you ready for this?”

 _Ready for imminent death_ ? _Sure_ , she surmises sarcastically.

Before the words leave her mouth, however, Jughead turns his head to the right to look at her, a glint of light from the bright sunshine reflects off the blue of his irises and his smile spreads so wide she thinks his cheeks might fracture under the strain.

“No at all.” Her lips quirk up on both sides in response, head stuttering side to side to shake away the idea of this completely.  “But you jump, I jump, Jack. Right?”

 

As if the wind agrees with her sentiment, it curls around her body, tapping briefly her bare shoulder to communicate, ‘hello there friend, I hope you’re enjoying your adventure.’

 

Betty’s toes scrunch up, clutching the cold, hard, metal grate of the diving platform.

_364 feet, 364 feet, Three. Hundred. Sixty-four. Feet._

“Damn right, baby.” His words stroke and pacify the monster whispering in her ear to shrink into herself, to fold the delicate corners of Betty Cooper into a perfect square. It’s been a challenge, breaking out of her comfort zone, but bit by bit Jughead has stripped away her insecurities, and rebuilt new walls- walls not to keep people out, but to make her new self stronger, impenetrable.

She wishes those walls were more stable at the current moment - not shaking in crippling apprehension.   

 

Adrenaline is the first, last, and only thing coursing through her veins as he motions to intertwine her fingers with his exactly halfway between their bodies.

They’ll always meet halfway.

“Once in a lifetime experience, though, yeah?”

The words barely escape her lips before erratic breaths start coming out in rapid bursts -out, in, out, in - as she looks down and the realization of how far up they _really are_ creeps the notches of her spine.

“Only if you want it to be.”

His wink strengthens her resolve. _Fuck it. They’re doing this._

 

She lets out a deep breath and jiggles her whole body, letting the nervous jitters out from head to toe. _Shake the demons out._

 _You’ve got this, you’ve got this, you’ve got this._ The words come out as a mantra under her breath, a broken record of her own making, as she tries desperately to psych herself up.

 

“I’M BETTY COOPER!!!!!”  It’s the only thing she can think to scream at the top of her lungs due to the separation of brain and mouth disorder she’s currently experiencing. His responding laugh, deep from the innermost chamber of his stomach, head thrown back in carefree whimsy, is everything.

He’s been her everything since day one. And today just adds another facet to his everythingness.

Mother Nature’s cry, a diminuendo of ‘Cooper, Cooper, Cooper’ echos against the backdrop of their little adventure and Betty can’t help smile at how freeing it all is.   

“Do you feel better?”

 _Hell no_ , she thinks. “Insanely,” she says instead.

 

They look out over the beautiful scenery, taking it all in before the leap. Trees dot the horizon in the distance, a little blurry - blues, greens, whites, and yellows -  to form a perfect painted curtain, a watercolor in which they are the sharpened subjects drawn on after the fact.

“Ok, you good?”

She shuffles sideways across the grate (trying desperately to ignore the rattling sound with her every movement), closing the mere inches between them, and reaches her hand up to push a wayward curl out of his eyes. _There,_ she thinks, leaning in to press her lips softly against his.

“ _Now_ I’m good.”

He chuckles before throwing his newly settled hair back over his shoulder and lowering his voice an octave.

“You know that’s futile, right? The hair, not the kiss, I mean. We can easily forget this whole thing and go to my car and -you know - make something of that.” he wiggles his eyebrows and Betty fights the urge to both slap his chest and pull him off the bridge to drag his body away do unspeakable activities.

 

It’s with a newfound confidence boost that she shuffles back to her spot.    

“Shut up. Ok, on the count of three.” Their hands thread again, fusing their two halves into a whole.

“ONE.” They chant together.

His palms feel sweaty and a memory flash of their first meeting snapshots across her vision. The damp skin of his hand as it wrapped around hers in the Blue and Gold. She learned later, after they’d been dating a while, that was the day he started believing in love at first sight.

“TWO.” He blows out a deep breath and she can almost feel the gust of air tickling her neck as if it were the first time they made love. Sweaty and tangled together, her chin resting against his chest as she traced the moles along his jawline.

“THR-”

“Wait wait! Has anyone ever died from this?!” She yells over her shoulder to the three people standing in the middle of the road barely in earshot of them.

“Yeah, ME if you two don’t just fucking GO!” Archie shouts back, lifting his arms to let Trent secure the straps of a harness snuggly around his waist. She shoots him the bird and turns back to find Jughead smiling wide.

 

“Remind me again what the hell Archie is doing here?”

“Don’t worry baby, I won’t let anything happen to you.” He affirms, gently tracing the thin infinity symbol etched elegantly in black on her left hand, fourth finger. The one to match his own.    

“You’re so full of shit, but I love you anyway.”

“So three?” He queries.

“Three.” She agrees, almost to herself, facing forward.

 

 

“ONE…”

_Breathe in._

“TWO…”

_Breathe out._

“THREE!!”

 

       

  

        

 

   

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnnnndddd... they died. And that’s why I stopped the story there. Because their funerals would be super depressing and I’ve aready got one super depressing fic and no one wants to read another. 
> 
> Maybe one day I’ll do a Coda about how Trent and Travis lost their jobs and became homeless and had to live off the land. I feel like Travis would survive better than Trent. Trent would just try to eat exotic berries to hallucinate because the death of Betty and Jughead caused him to lose his job and consequently his money, and he couldn’t afford to buy the good drugs. 
> 
> I’d read that story. 
> 
> ....annnnyyyyway. Please drop me a comment!


End file.
